


Secret Satan

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Could be angsty, Could be fluffy, M/M, Other, Pre-Canon, Secret Santa, Secret Satan, Seven Deadly Sins, well most of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21822373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Hell has its own traditions come Christmastime. Crowley has managed to keep them secret from Aziraphale until now - but all that could be about to change when he draws the angel's human alias from the Secret Satan hat.Inspired by a Tumblr post. A choose-your-own sin story. Updates daily, with a bit of luck.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 147
Kudos: 223
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this Tumblr post: [ https://prokopetz.tumblr.com/post/189316417422/all-right-folks-its-time-for-this-years ](https://prokopetz.tumblr.com/post/189316417422/all-right-folks-its-time-for-this-years) \- which is also where a fair chunk of Dagon's dialogue came from.
> 
> So this idea sort of shattered when I touched it, by which I mean I couldn't decide on a sin so I'm writing them all in parallel. Pick a chapter, or read them all, but they're all AUs of each other after this chapter. The plan is to tie them all together at the end, but we'll see how that pans out as I've only written one so far!
> 
> Rating may change, but again, we'll have to see.
> 
> For now, enjoy the prologue.

Crowley bloody hated Christmas.

Not the Earth bit, that was all right, although he didn’t see why one winter festival should overshadow all the others, just because that was the one the big corporations got behind. He supposed, as celebrations went, it wasn’t too bad these days. Mostly eating and drinking too much, partying and swapping gifts, rather than glaring suspiciously at anyone who missed Midnight Mass and standing in the snow singing carols.

Christmas in Hell was an entirely different matter. For one thing, it was more of an _Anti-Christmas_ \- not to be confused with Antichristmas, which was yet to come. Crowley had, in fact, taken inspiration from Hell’s only major annual tradition and introduced it to offices around the world; humans had taken to the idea of stressing out over exchanging gifts with people they hardly knew with a perverse sort of _glee._ It had, at least, made the wealth inequality of gift exchanges a little less fraught, which was what Crowley had told Aziraphale when he’d complained about it.

“Well, that’s rather ni- er, naughty of you, all the same. But where on earth did you come up with that idea, Crowley?”

“Oh, you know me. Full of surprises,” Crowley bluffed, “anyway, got to check in as usual next week, this time of year it’s usually a big assignment to balance out all the _goodwill_ going around. So I might not be able to turn up and rescue you for a while. Stay out of trouble.”

“Away with you, foul fiend,” Aziraphale had grumbled, and Crowley had grinned at him before he left.

This year, he didn’t have to make his excuses. He’d turned up at Aziraphale’s shop at Hallowe’en, just to give him a bit of a fright; Aziraphale had declared him _adorable_ and Crowley had decided that he wasn’t going to talk to him any more. The important thing was that Aziraphale wouldn’t be expecting Crowley to turn up, which meant he wouldn’t ask any irritating questions when Crowley didn’t.

Crowley didn’t want to answer questions, because he didn’t think Aziraphale would be very impressed if he knew where Crowley had _really_ got the idea for Secret Santa - or, for that matter, that Crowley was still doing at least one intense, hand-crafted individual temptation every year. He sloped into Hell, took his place in the crowd of demons shambling towards the conference room, and resigned himself to another inconvenient task.

“Listen up, maggots- no particular offence, Duke Hastur,” Dagon added, and Hastur shrugged. Dagon, as a Lord of Hell and Beelzebub’s left-hand demon, was untouchable in a way Crowley could only dream of being. “It’s time for this year’s Secret Satan!”

A couple of the disposable demons that seemed to be everywhere these days - Crowley briefly wondered if they were breeding or simply dividing like cells, but decided that he didn’t want to know - wheeled out two enormous top hats, each stuffed to the brim with pieces of paper. Dagon waited for them to lock the wheels on the bottom into place, which took a while because, of course, each trolley-turned-hat had at least one dodgy wheel, and then continued.

“You know the drill: pick a sin from the hat on the left and a name from the hat on the right. You have thirty days to tempt your assigned victim to commit your assigned sin… _or else._ ”

That was no idle threat, and every demon in the assembled throng knew it. A demon of Crowley’s acquaintance had made a right pig’s ear of his Secret Satan assignment in 1629, and rumour had it he was still in the deepest pit. Crowley had skipped the whole thing for a century while he was napping, had been thoroughly admonished for it, and had been told in no uncertain terms that he would not be missing it again. He doubted he’d get any leniency if he cocked this up. At least he was good at his job, when he had to be; nobody could tempt humanity quite like Crowley.

“A quick note: as you know, we’ve traditionally used census data to draw our targets.” Crowley was aware; he’d been relieved when they’d switched over to using the phone book. The most difficult assignment in London - and the one Crowley would have had to try to steer other demons from, if it came to it - was steadfastly ex-directory. “Then the phone book. But this year we’re shaking things up. These names are drawn from tax records.” Dagon smiled proudly. “Billionaires are too easy to tempt, so this should take them out of the running and make things a little more challenging. More _fun._ ”

No doubt she was thinking of the fun the infernal torturers would have when more people failed - but that didn’t matter to Crowley, because Crowley was going to win.

Demon after demon stepped forward and plucked a piece of paper from each hat; Ligur looked relieved by whatever he’d picked, and Hastur only rolled his eyes when he saw the sin he’d been assigned.

“Demon Crowley, your turn,” Dagon droned, checking her way down the list of names. Crowley stepped forward and plunged his hand in, stirring the scraps of paper around for a moment before seizing one and pulling it out. He glanced down and felt his heart stop for several long moments as he saw the name written there.

 _A.Z. Fell,_ and the familiar address of a little bookshop in Soho.

“And a sin, Crowley, we don’t have all day.”

Hesitantly, Crowley reached into the second hat and retrieved his task.


	2. Gluttony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: food as a sin.
> 
> For the record, there's absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying food. Crowley isn't trying to damn his angel, after all!

Crowley focused very hard on keeping his hands from shaking as he unfolded the second piece of paper. For a moment, he was _so_ consumed by the task of keeping his hands steady that he didn’t register what it actually said.

_Gluttony._

Of all the Deadly Sins, this was the one he would have to tempt Aziraphale to commit.

He rolled his eyes, as if the whole thing was just a minor inconvenience, muttered, “too easy” for good measure, and stormed out of Hell.

* * *

On the face of it, it sounded almost too easy. Aziraphale loved to eat, and he loved to devour the other things that made life pleasant, too - books, and music, and plays, and little joys like feeding the ducks in St. James’ Park. And if Hell’s definition of gluttony aligned with its most common earthly definition, Crowley could have simply tempted his adversary to a spot of lunch and a decadent dessert - perhaps some wine, too - and had done with it. That was just a typical meeting for them; Aziraphale wouldn’t even notice anything amiss.

The problem, to Crowley’s mind, was that Hell had a rather narrower definition of gluttony, at least when it came to the rules of Secret Satan. _Excessive indulgence or consumption to the point of waste or deprivation of others._ That should have been easy, too; Aziraphale didn’t actually _need_ to consume any sort of food, as his superiors were so fond of reminding him. It should _all_ have been wasteful, every crumb.

But nothing Aziraphale ate was truly wasted, because he enjoyed it so much. Nor was it entirely selfish - which might have sufficed - because Crowley loved to _watch_ him eat, or read, or whatever it was that Aziraphale chose to indulge in on any given occasion. Even if he managed to get Aziraphale to overindulge in- well, in _anything_ \- it wouldn’t be wasted.

Crowley wasn’t worried that his angel would _Fall_ for the sin of gluttony, at least. He might be told off, but God hadn’t cast him down for his indulgences yet. Nor had She cast out Gabriel, with his penchant for expensive earthly tailoring that he wore once before disappearing back to Heaven and forgetting about it. No, Aziraphale wouldn’t Fall for a little gluttony. Crowley, on the other hand, would absolutely be condemned to the torture pits if he failed to tempt him to it.

He could, at least, try to tempt Aziraphale into _selfish_ consumption. He would have to be there - doing the tempting - which meant he had to eliminate his own pleasure in Aziraphale’s little self-indulgences from the equation. Fortunately, he had recently inspired a fad that might be just the thing.

* * *

“Crowley, is this really the best place you could have chosen for this meeting? I walked into two chairs on my way in.”

“Sorry, angel, but the food here’s fantastic. The darkness really enhances the flavour.”

“Well- well, yes, I can see that- will it be a short meeting?”

“Not overly short, no. You should order a few courses, anyway. Make the most of it. Indulge yourself a little bit, you deserve it.”

“Oh, well… temptation accomplished.” And oh, blessed heaven, Crowley could almost _hear_ the little wiggle as he said it.

The darkness was so absolute that Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to see that Crowley was wearing a blindfold underneath his usual sunglasses, but if he _did_ question it, Crowley would assure him that he was trying to get the full experience. The truth was, he didn’t want his snake-like eyes to adjust and blow the whole thing. If he could _see_ Aziraphale enjoying his food, the strange magic that reported on whether a Secret Satan assignment had been successfully completed would no doubt reject it out of hand.

As it was, keeping up a steady stream of idle chit-chat about Hell’s goings-on, and possible assignments they could exchange, and what they’d been up to recently, for as long as it took Aziraphale to demolish five courses in the dark - well, it was a special sort of Hell of its own, just for Crowley. He _knew_ \- he knew, because he had committed so many similar experiences to memory - that Aziraphale was pulling the most delightful faces, savouring each mouthful in a way that really _had_ to be a sin.

Crowley sat in the dark, listening to the sound of cutlery scraping in London's trendiest dining establishment, and hoped his suffering would pay off.


	3. Greed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this chapter takes place instead of the previous one, rather than after it!

Crowley focused very hard on keeping his hands from shaking as he unfolded the second piece of paper. For a moment, he was _so_ consumed by the task of keeping his hands steady that he didn’t register what it actually said.

_Greed._

Of all the Deadly Sins, this was the one he would have to tempt Aziraphale to commit.

He rolled his eyes, as if the whole thing was just a minor inconvenience, muttered, “too easy” for good measure, and stormed out of Hell.

* * *

Aziraphale was something of a hoarder. No, that was understating it. Aziraphalle guarded his most prized possessions - from his books to his collection of snuffboxes - with all the ferocity of a dragon. Unfortunately for Crowley, he’d had over 6000 years to amass his collection, and he was good at it, which meant that he already had almost everything he could want. Crowley had inadvertently made things even harder for himself by bringing Aziraphale gifts, over the centuries, so he knew the sort of thing that drew his angel’s attention. It wasn’t hard to narrow down the things Aziraphale liked and didn’t have to one single thing he might be persuaded to covet. Worse, to covet enough to _act_ on his greed.

The comforting thing about it all was that Heaven wasn’t likely to hurl Aziraphale, wings burning, from the skies just for trying to acquire a _material object_. If they even noticed his behaviour at all, it could easily be explained away as trying to retrieve some of his own property - as if Heaven kept tabs on what Aziraphale owned - or to make sure a thief didn’t prosper, or even as an attempt to keep dangerous material out of evil hands. If he hadn’t been certain of that, Crowley wouldn’t have made any attempt to tempt his angel at all. If greed had been something Heaven understood, or knew how to identify in its own agents, he wouldn’t make a single move.

As it was, he snapped his fingers several times in swift succession, and resolved to drop by the bookshop with exciting news in a couple of days.

* * *

As it transpired, he didn't have to wait that long; Aziraphale called him the very next day.

“I need to meet with you, urgently. I, er… I need some help.”

“Fifth alternative rendezvous,” Crowley told him, “half an hour.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s the, ah…?”

“That dingy little pub you can’t stand.”

“Oh, Cro- I mean, ah, it’s filthy-”

“And that’s why your lot will never go near it. Half an hour, angel.” Then he hung up, before Aziraphale could try to argue, and made for the Bentley.

Once they’d settled in a dark corner, the pub miraculously crowded enough that two strangers might plausibly come to be sharing a booth out of necessity rather than choice, Crowley allowed his angel to complain about the uncleanliness of his wine glass for two full minutes before interrupting to get them back on track.

“You said you needed help, angel.” He’d been worried, but that anxiety was fading fast as he realised that Aziraphale was in no particular hurry.

“Oh. Yes. Well, it’s just that it’s, er, rather more in your wheelhouse than mine, as they say.”

“Is it, now?” That was promising; that was extremely promising. “Do go on.”

“Well, it’s- you see-” Aziraphale fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a small advertisement clipped from a newspaper. He handed it to Crowley, who studied it with interest.

_VALUATION WANTED_

_Expert in antique books required to appraise following first editions:_

_Rev. R. Thurton, Diary of_

_C. Dickens, David Copperfield_

_A. Notter, Nice and Accurate Prophecies of_

_Rev. F. Holborn, Treatise on the Demon_

_Valuation for insurance purposes only; not for sale. Please enquire-_

“Oh,” Crowley said, after a few more seconds than it had actually taken him to read the ad, “I see, you want me to check the accuracy of the demon book.”

“What? What demon book- no, it’s- that should say _Nutter_ , Agnes Nutter.”

“Right. Big fan, are you?” He knew he was; Aziraphale brought up his own personal white whale whenever he set eyes on a copy of _Moby Dick._

“Crowley, there are no known copies in the _world_ , except the author’s own, which was lost when she died - I need to have that book.”

“Right. So… buy it. You can miracle up any money you need, can’t you?”

“It says it’s not for sale!”

They regarded one another impassively across the table; Crowley knew what his angel wanted from him, and normally he would have simply agreed to take care of it by now, but tonight he needed his angel to say it. Eventually, Aziraphale gave in.

“I, er, I want to plan a… a caper.”

“Oh, well. If you’re after a caper, I’m your man.”

Two days later, they were standing outside a rather grand-looking house just outside of London, and Aziraphale seemed entirely ready to keep the appointment he’d made to appraise the books. Crowley stopped him before he could touch the intercom on the gatepost.

“I just want to be clear, angel. You think this might be the book you’ve been searching for. One of the rarest in the world. And this is reconnaissance, because if it _is_ the one you think it is, you’re prepared to steal it.”

“Well, _steal_ is such a strong-”

“Aren’t you?”

“...Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, “if it’s the book I think it is, I’m going to steal it.”

They both waited for a second, as if a bolt of lightning might strike them for saying it out loud, but nothing happened. Crowley smirked.

“Then let’s go and case the joint.” 

Half an hour later, they stood in the grand house’s library, and Crowley would have given almost anything not to have seen such a heartbroken expression on Aziraphale’s face, ever, let alone caused it. But as Aziraphale sadly informed the owner of the books that _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Andrea Notter_ dated back to only about 1920 and was nothing more than a mediocre collection of poems, he couldn’t help but be relieved. 

Surely this had to be enough to satisfy the requirements of the Secret Satan challenge, without Aziraphale having had to do anything he’d regret later.

He would just have to hope so, anyway.


	4. Sloth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this chapter takes place instead of the previous two, rather than after them! Think of it as seven parallel universes that diverge at the end of the prologue.

Crowley focused very hard on keeping his hands from shaking as he unfolded the second piece of paper. For a moment, he was _so_ consumed by the task of keeping his hands steady that he didn’t register what it actually said.

_Sloth._

Of all the Deadly Sins, this was the one he would have to tempt Aziraphale to commit.

He rolled his eyes, as if the whole thing was just a minor inconvenience, muttered, “too easy” for good measure, and stormed out of Hell.

* * *

The thing about Aziraphale was that he didn’t _sleep_. And, while Crowley could attempt to talk him into taking a nap - although, admittedly, he’d been trying to sell him on the benefits of a good night’s rest for centuries and had yet to make any progress - he strongly suspected that wouldn’t be enough to fulfil the terms of the challenge. After all, even if Aziraphale was a human, who slept each night for eight hours in order to wake rested, a little nap would hardly count as _sloth_. Hell would want to see something a little more _impressive_ , and that meant danger.

Crowley had tempted a great many people to sloth before, and not just in the sense of lazing about. He'd tested the limits of morally-permissible activity-dodging. He’d tempted _monks_ , even, to the sort of disinclination for their holy duties that could damn a person. He’d put up with a very long lecture from Saint Thomas of Aquinas on the subject of sloth as _sorrow over spiritual good._ He knew all the ways a person - or a person-shaped being - could fall to sloth.

And that was what he was afraid of. Aziraphale had never been the most committed angel, often happy to pass on his heavenly tasks to Crowley if the opportunity arose, and Crowley had seen him looking out over the damp world from the peak of Ararat. He _knew_ it wouldn’t be hard to make him feel true sorrow over the Great Plan, or the Ineffable Plan, or any number of things God had done in the name of _spiritual good._ But that was something that the archangels, Heaven - even God herself - could neither overlook nor forgive. Crowley had almost led Aziraphale to this sin a thousand times before, the accidental side effect of asking him too many questions, and he’d always slammed the brakes on before Aziraphale could actually commit to it, before he could get in too deep. Sorrow over God’s work - well, that was only all right when the likes of Crowley did it, and only because he’d already been punished.

Crowley wasn’t going to make Aziraphale Fall, not for a stupid challenge in Hell. That was certain. But if he could possibly get out of being tortured for centuries as a result of his failure, that would be infinitely preferable. He just had to think of some way to tempt Aziraphale to commit some form of sloth without overstepping the mark and losing God’s favour. That was all. Piece of cake.

Perhaps the Arrangement was the key. Aziraphale could be disinclined to exert himself without actually leaving his work for Heaven undone; in fact, it might be better to leave his angelic work out of the equation altogether. If Hell somehow caught on that his target was an angel, and that Crowley _knew_ , and that they knew _each other…_ It didn’t bear thinking about.

* * *

“Angel,” Crowley drawled, stretching out to take up as much of the bench as possible. He needed Aziraphale to be at least a little irritated, a little out of sorts, so he’d be more reluctant to help Crowley out. Otherwise, he’d probably drop everything to try to accommodate Crowley’s request, however inconvenient the demon made it. And he meant to make it _extremely_ inconvenient. “Whose turn is it to cover for the other?”

“Er… I think I’m supposed to get the next one.” It seemed Crowley’s posture had, indeed, put Aziraphale’s nose out of joint, and there was already a very promising note of reluctance in his response. “Aren’t you usually caught up in rather a lot of dastardly deeds at this time of year?”

“Swamped,” Crowley agreed, “which is why I could use a hand.”

“What do you need me to do?” Yes, there was definitely a hint of doubt in the question. It certainly wasn’t a simple agreement that he’d do it.

“Oh, well, I’m supposed to walk from here to Dover, sowing discord as I go-”

“Crowley, that’s- what, that’s got to be 70 miles!”

“77.4, actually,” he told him airily, and then prepared to ramp up the distance until Aziraphale refused outright. “And no miraculous travelling, if you can believe that. Then from Dover I’m supposed to go along the coast until I can cut in towards Ashdown Forest. Lure some hikers off the trails, crash through the undergrowth making spooky noises, that sort of thing. And then carry on along the South Downs, paying tribute to some of the infernally-approved sites along there, until I reach Winchester. Lots of very temptable clergy in Winchester-”

“That’s rather a lot, Crowley. You- you’d owe me a _lot_ of miracles-”

“That’s not the half of what they’ve got me doing, angel. At least they’ve left me on this island - well, they can’t send me to Ireland, not after last time, but at least they assigned Europe to other people - it wouldn’t be so bad, except I hate walking.”

“Yes, well. So do I. Oh, Crowley, this really is rather a lot to ask of me.”

“Well, if you don’t want to-”

“...Wait. You said no miracles?”

“No travelling by miracle, they were very clear.”

“Then- my dear boy, why don’t you simply take your beloved Bentley?”

It would have to do; Aziraphale was trying to weasel his way out of an obligation, and - since he’d made the whole thing up - Crowley was going to let him.

“Oh, yeah, the Bentley! She only runs _like_ a miracle. You’re right, angel. Well, that’s you off the hook, then. I’ll get it all done in no time.”

“Oh. Oh, well, if you’re sure you can manage.” Aziraphale looked entirely too pleased with himself; he always got so excited when he thought he was being wily. It _had_ to be enough to count as sloth. If it wasn’t… well, Crowley would miss him.

But it would be enough. He was almost sure of it.


	5. Wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this goes as an AU instead of the previous 3 chapters and follows directly on from the prologue. I'm not going to lie, getting them all to meet back up again at the end is going to be a tricky one... Enjoy!

Crowley focused very hard on keeping his hands from shaking as he unfolded the second piece of paper. For a moment, he was _so_ consumed by the task of keeping his hands steady that he didn’t register what it actually said.

_Wrath._

Of all the Deadly Sins, this was the one he would have to tempt Aziraphale to.

He rolled his eyes, as if the whole thing was just a minor inconvenience, muttered, “too easy” for good measure, and stormed out of Hell.

* * *

Well, it wasn’t as if Crowley had never seen Aziraphale angry. It usually simmered away inside him, a quiet fury that could be contained until it faded away. When Aziraphale saw injustice, when he suffered insults, when Crowley pretended to dog-ear a page in a first edition… He kept that rage inside, crushed it down until he could forget it was there.

Wrath wasn’t about controlled anger, though. It was about pure, unbridled rage, the sort that spilled over like… like a flood. Aziraphale had been angry about a flood once, long ago. Crowley had been, too, had muttered blasphemies, then moved on to cursing God and Her supposed Great Plan, and finally stormed off to make some trouble by saving those he could. Aziraphale, though - he’d been as angry as Crowley had ever seen him, and he’d turned it all into sadness before it could escape and harm anyone.

Crowley usually tried not to make Aziraphale truly angry - not with _him_ , anyway. He was a demon, and an outburst of Divine Wrath from an angel could easily mean his discorporation, or even destruction. He enjoyed _riling_ Aziraphale, winding him up, pulling his leg, challenging him… but actually making him angry, angry enough to lose his cool… He wasn’t sure it could be done. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see it, if it was.

Aziraphale had come close to being truly, uncontrollably angry with Crowley, once. It had been in 1862; Crowley had asked for Holy Water as a last line of defence in case things went wrong and Hell came after him. Aziraphale had assumed Crowley wanted it as an escape route, a suicide pill, and Crowley would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t considered that possibility in his darkest moments - but he really _had_ meant for it to be a weapon against whoever might come after him. He’d been taken aback by Aziraphale’s anger - but even as Aziraphale scolded him, his lip had wobbled. Anger into sorrow; the angel was a very efficient conversion unit.

He had to find a way to make Aziraphale angry - _truly,_ unstoppably angry - and preferably not with him. But he also didn’t want to prod his angel into doing something he’d regret forever. Aziraphale had enough regrets, and so did Crowley.

No, it was going to have to be him. If the angel slipped up and killed a human in his rage, he’d never forgive himself. If he lost control and killed another demon - the idea of setting him on Hastur had a certain appeal - Hell would know he was an angel, and Crowley would be in even worse trouble. And if Aziraphale’s wrath was directed in even the vague direction of Heaven, he would Fall.

It had to be Crowley, and if it _was_ Crowley, nothing Aziraphale did would count against him in Heaven’s eyes. Hell would note down a human losing his temper in a spectacular display of wrath - Crowley, at least, would know when to cut and run - but Heaven would only see an angel doing his job, trying to smite a demon. Hopefully, failing.

He just needed to work out the right way to make him angry.

* * *

“I really do think those eBook things are better than the paper versions, seriously,” Crowley ventured, as they sat one behind the other on the Number 19 bus. Today, Crowley was in front, pretending to read a copy of the _Infernal Times_ , and Aziraphale was waving absent-mindedly at excited toddlers through the window behind him.

“Hm? Well, I dare say they have their merits,” the angel answered peaceably. That wasn’t right at all; he’d hoped for fire, but he’d expected at least a little spark of irritation.

“Definitely, way better than mouldy old books.”

“They do use less paper, and they have some excellent accessibility features, I’m sure.”

“Might as well pulp the old ones,” Crowley pressed, “especially those boring old sods like Wilde.”

“He wasn’t boring when you were following me to his every soiree,” Aziraphale countered, “and really, Crowley. Some of us do _prefer_ them. We’re all entitled to our preferences.”

Crowley panicked; he’d been sure he was onto a winner, there. Now he had all of three stops to really get Aziraphale going before the angel would be expecting him to get off the bus.

“Well, I don’t know. They at least update to fix typos, occasionally, not like your ridiculous misprinted Bibles. Or are those God’s own mistakes?”

“She doesn’t make mistakes, Crowley. You know that.” He still didn’t sound angry; it was Crowley’s temper that flared.

“Oh, do I? Doesn’t make mistakes! Look at me!” He turned in his seat to gesture to himself, and Aziraphale gave him a long look up and down.

“What about you? Oh, have I missed a presentation change? Because if so, that’s very much _my_ mistake, and I’m sor-”

”Very funny, angel, you know what I mean. God definitely screwed up when She made me.”

“Crowley-”

Crowley jabbed at the _stop_ button harder than necessary, a stop too early, then swung himself out of the seat and marched down the aisle. This had been a failure; he needed to go back to his flat, clear his head, and think of some excuse to meet with Aziraphale again once he had a new plan to infuriate him - no, to enrage him.

“Crowley!”

Caught up in his own thoughts, he didn’t even realise he was being followed until Aziraphale called his name again, just a few feet behind him as his long strides took him ever closer to his own front door. Before he could respond, Aziraphale had darted round in front of him, grabbed him by the lapels, and dragged him into an old phone box that had, of late, definitely seen more use as a public toilet. The door slammed behind them and the smell hit Crowley’s sensitive nostrils like sulphur. He miracled it away with an irritable snap of his fingers.

“What do you want, angel?”

“A mistake? How dare you say that?”

“You can’t honestly still be surprised by my blasphemy, angel, it’s been thousands of years-”

“How could you _say_ that? How _dare_ you disparage one of Her most perfect creations? What the _Hell_ gives you the right to insult my best friend right to my face?”

Aziraphale was all but snarling in his face, still clutching the front of Crowley’s jacket in clenched fists, teeth bared, face mere inches from Crowley’s own as he pinned the demon effortlessly to the wall of the booth. It only made Crowley angrier; _this_ was all it took to make Aziraphale lose it? A little light blasphemy? And now the memory of this would always interfere with a fantasy he’d cherished in secret since phone boxes had first been invented. Yes, his angel was furious, but so was Crowley.

After a frozen, incandescent second, Aziraphale let go of him and stormed from the booth, slamming the door so hard it had to be an actual miracle that the glass didn’t break. Crowley didn’t follow him, because Aziraphale’s words had just managed to break through his rage and - if he was honest - the hint of arousal sparking within him.

 _Insult my best friend right to my face._ That was how he’d tipped Aziraphale over the edge into what _had_ to count as at least mild wrath. _Insult my best friend._ Crowley had insulted himself, and Aziraphale had - however briefly - flipped.

_My best friend._

  
All right, so it was a selfless sort of anger. A righteous kind of anger, albeit in defence of something very _un_ righteous. But it had definitely been anger, and Aziraphale certainly hadn’t seemed to be in control of it for a moment there. Crowley would have to hope it would do.


	6. Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was surprisingly hard to write, and therefore hasn't been edited quite as thoroughly as the other chapters. Please forgive me any mistakes! Enjoy.

Crowley focused very hard on keeping his hands from shaking as he unfolded the second piece of paper. For a moment, he was _so_ consumed by the task of keeping his hands steady that he didn’t register what it actually said.

_Envy._

Of all the Deadly Sins, this was the one he would have to tempt Aziraphale to commit.

He rolled his eyes, as if the whole thing was just a minor inconvenience, muttered, “too easy” for good measure, and stormed out of Hell.

* * *

Aziraphale was an angel. Hell didn’t know that, of course, but the fact remained that A.Z Fell was an _angel_. More than that, he was the best of Heaven’s angels, at least in Crowley’s opinion. There was very little that he lacked but others had, and he had nobody with superior status to envy except, perhaps, the archangels and God Herself.

Crowley had no intention of trying to make Aziraphale envy anyone above him in the Heavenly hierarchy, which meant he had to find something else Aziraphale lacked, something other than status or reputation. He needed to find something that Aziraphale didn’t have, something that he could push him into wanting someone else not to have either. His first thought was freedom - the one thing neither he nor Aziraphale could truly claim to have, not with Heaven and Hell breathing down their necks - but he didn’t want to tempt Aziraphale to try to take freedom from anyone. He wouldn’t do that; Aziraphale might disagree with Crowley on a great many subjects, but free will wasn’t one of them.

Aziraphale could be lonely, though. He’d mentioned, on occasion, that the other angels tended to be a bit standoffish with him - perhaps because he spent so much time on Earth and not in Heaven with the rest of them. Perhaps all Crowley needed to make Aziraphale envious was the right enticement; a life he wished he could have, or a connection he wished he could share with someone. And then, when Hell was satisfied, Crowley would have to be sure to make it up to him somehow. A few extra covert dinner meetings, perhaps a couple of introductions to mildly villainous types Aziraphale could spend time talking back round to Heaven’s waiting list. That would cheer him up and banish the loneliness. Crowley didn't want to do any irreparable damage, after all.

* * *

Crowley had worked hard, using all the temptation he could muster to enthrall a small group of humans. Not completely, of course - it wasn’t about _controlling_ the humans, it was just a matter of making sure they adored him in a way that Aziraphale would wish he could be adored. If he wanted to deprive Crowley of the human company he himself lacked, that was enough to qualify as envy even in the context of Hell’s most solemn ritual, the Secret Satan. Once he’d got them hooked, he switched the temptation off entirely and found that, as planned, they still wanted to spend time with him. It would probably only last a few hours, but he wasn’t worried about that; he would only need a short while to make Aziraphale jealous of his vibrant social life.

They loitered outside the bookshop at around the time Aziraphale usually closed up (at this time of year, when the stars were in their current position, and the weather being as it was), and sure enough Crowley spotted him doing a double-take as he turned the sign in the door to ‘closed’. It was a couple of minutes before the angel obviously gave into his curiosity.

“Crowley? Were you waiting to see me?” Crowley turned from his new friends as they all burst out laughing, one of them nudging him good-naturedly with an elbow, and raised an eyebrow at the angel as if he’d only just noticed him.

“Oh, hello, Aziraphale. No, we were just loitering. Hanging out. Have you met my friends?”

“Er- I don’t think I have.” Aziraphale eyed them warily. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“This is, er…” He’d tried to learn all their names, but he’d been somewhat hindered by the fact that he didn’t care. If he was wrong, they wouldn’t correct him, at least. “Matt, Lucy, Chris, Dave, and Emma.” Emma beamed as he said her name; he was beginning to think he’d overdone the temptation on that one. She stepped closer, putting a hand on his arm and angling her body slightly away from Aziraphale. The others simply glanced in the angel’s direction before focusing on Crowley once more. Crowley - despite every fibre of his being protesting the act - turned his back on Aziraphale and went back to the story he’d been telling, the humans hanging on his every word.

Aziraphale, to his surprise, didn’t go back inside. Instead, he lingered on the edge of the group, listening to Crowley’s story with the rest. It was a disguised version of a story Aziraphale knew very well - from the inside out, in fact - and Crowley was suddenly very conscious of the way he was telling it.

“...Anyway, he bet them all twenty quid that his wife wouldn’t run down the street in her underwear. And of course she didn’t want to, but he was a bit of a bastard and he would have taken that twenty quid _off_ them, and they didn’t have it to spare. And it was raining, right, so… I had a quick word and we agreed some terms. Everyone was going to pay up their twenty quid if she didn’t do it, but the conditions were that the curtains stayed closed and only he could look. We went door-to-door, asking people to stay inside for ten minutes. And the other condition was that she got to start from my house, across the street. Said it’d make her nervous if he saw her start out.” He paused dramatically. “Well, she had no intention of running down the street in her underwear.”

“Then what happened?” Emma prompted breathlessly, and Crowley spared a moment to regret his choice of tale.

“I wore her underwear and streaked down the road. Bit of padding in strategic places, hair plastered down like it was, in the rain… people always thought we were twins anyway. Bloke even told her how gorgeous she looked, when she got back. And nobody had to pay up.”

“I think I remember that,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Coventry, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Good times.”

Aziraphale did seem oddly wistful as the conversation carried on around him, but he stayed quiet.

“You’ve just got the best stories, man, I could hang out with you all day,” one of the guys was telling Crowley, with only a tiny hint of demonic prompting, when Aziraphale finally cleared his throat with a deliberate sort of expression.

“Ahem. Actually, Crowley, I wondered if I could have a word. Privately?”

“Bit busy tonight, actually, angel-” He cut himself off with a breathless hiss as Emma - who’d been hanging off him more and more literally for the last several minutes - slipped a hand into his back pocket and squeezed. He froze, and watched in horror as Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on his face for a moment before dropping to the human’s hand. He was going to apologise for intruding, excuse himself, and leave Crowley to it, wasn’t he? And Crowley would get rid of the humans on his own, and it would all have been for nothing, because Aziraphale might have envied Crowley the _friendship_ of humans but he had no interest whatsoever in their _sexual_ potential, which was what he'd now assume Crowley was doing with them.

He was surprised when the angel’s expression hardened into a glare, levelled directly at Emma.

“It can’t wait, I’m afraid, Crowley. Do come along.” And then he took Crowley’s arm and led him firmly into the shop, his new ‘friends’ wandering off as if they had all just very suddenly remembered that they had other things to do. Crowley didn’t mind; surely Aziraphale removing him from company must count as depriving him of it. Or had he wanted the human woman to touch _him_ , instead, and so removed _her_ from Crowley? That would be a surprise, to say the least; perhaps Aziraphale really _did_ need him for something.

“What can’t wait, angel?”

“Oh, er… well, I couldn’t have you corrupting those humans unthwarted. Wine?”

Well, he must have been jealous of _something_ , then. Regardless, it seemed, the ruse had worked. He could only hope it would count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referencing [The Coventry Affair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20491973) again, sorry!


	7. Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was tricky to pull off, too. Hopefully it came out all right. Enjoy!

Crowley focused very hard on keeping his hands from shaking as he unfolded the second piece of paper. For a moment, he was _so_ consumed by the task of keeping his hands steady that he didn’t register what it actually said.

_Pride._

Of all the Deadly Sins, this was the one he would have to tempt Aziraphale to commit.

He rolled his eyes, as if the whole thing was just a minor inconvenience, muttered, “too easy” for good measure, and stormed out of Hell.

* * *

Pride was a weird sin, in Crowley’s opinion. It was also a difficult one to tempt an angel to - especially the _best_ of Her angels - because in order for pride to be a sin, it had to involve an _undeserved_ sense of superiority. In Crowley’s opinion, many of the angels who remained on high thought entirely too much of themselves, but since God Herself had set them above humanity and the demons, it was hard to imagine that their believing it could count as a sin.

Aziraphale, though; Aziraphale was humble. Aziraphale truly believed himself to be _less_ than those pompous bastards up there. And even if Crowley could convince him to rank himself above the archangels - even above the Seraphim, even above God Herself - it would be no more than what was true and right. Crowley knew, with more certainty than he had ever felt about anything else in his long, miserable existence, that Aziraphale _was_ better than anyone or anything else in the universe. He was more loving than the archangels; he was more forgiving than God. He was _kind_ , which hardly anyone was these days, or ever had been. And he was just enough of a bastard not to be a pretentious pain in the arse about it all.

His angel was far too humble to set himself above others - besides demons, which was justified, and humans who let their small children smear their sticky hands on his books, which was even more so - and look down his nose at them. If only pride in somebody _else_ could count - but it didn’t, so Aziraphale’s immense pride in humanity’s achievements were of no use to Crowley.

There was one form of pride he thought he might be able to nudge Aziraphale into, though, and he had even done it by accident once before, long ago. He hadn’t Fallen then, and he hadn’t been punished - well, not for that, anyway. He could get away with it again.

_Belief in one’s own infallibility._

Aziraphale had lost some faith in himself, over the millennia, worn down by the constant put-downs of Gabriel and God’s complete lack of encouragement - but Crowley could build him back up a little. He _wanted_ to build him back up; the Secret Satan challenge just added a bit of urgency. And Aziraphale wouldn’t Fall, because he hadn’t before, and because he deserved every molecule of pride Crowley could instill in him.

So, that was the plan. He just had to hope Aziraphale would let him put it into action.

* * *

It took a bit of manoeuvring to get the conversation where Crowley wanted it to be. They’d almost run out of things to throw at the ducks before inspiration struck.

“You know, the humans reckon bread’s no good for ducks these days,” he told him, keeping his tone deliberately light and casual. “Makes them ill.”

“Does it?” Aziraphale peered anxiously into his bag of crumbs; it was almost empty, and the ducks didn’t seem to have complained yet.

“That’s what they’re saying.” Crowley shrugged, and left the silence to hang for a moment. It worked exactly as he’d hoped it would.

“Oh, I do hope I haven’t been feeding them the wrong thing.”

“Nah,” Crowley told him. “You’re an angel. I don’t think you _can_ do the wrong thing.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened into something infinitely fond; perhaps he was thinking of those utopian days in the Garden of Eden, before Crowley had slithered up and told him that the first time. When he spoke, it was with a rueful little smile.

“I don’t know that you believed that the _first_ time you said it, let alone now.”

“Doesn’t matter if _I_ believed it then. Did you?”

“Well… yes, I’m afraid I did.”

“Good, because I do think you did the right thing. For what it’s worth. Do you believe it now?”

“I… well, I think it’s probably a bit more complicated than that. A bit more… well, ineffable, I suppose.”

“Well, _I_ don’t believe you can do the wrong thing.”

“Really?”

“Not a single thing,” Crowley told him, and hoped his smile hadn’t taken on the lovesick quality it felt like it had. He turned away and tried to focus on sinking a duck.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and then, “ _oh_. Well- Crowley, _let that duck up this instant.”_

“See? Always doing the right thing. What did I tell you?”

The duck bobbed angrily to the surface, quacked something that probably wasn’t fit for ducklings' ears - did ducklings have ears? - and swam away. They watched it go, and Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully to himself.

“I suppose, if you’re sure… you’re probably right.”

_Infallibility._ It wouldn’t be a lasting belief, and it wasn’t the worst form of pride - believing that you couldn’t possibly mess something up - but it would have to do. They were out of bread, and out of excuses to linger in the park.

He would just have to hope it would do.


	8. Lust

Crowley focused very hard on keeping his hands from shaking as he unfolded the second piece of paper. For a moment, he was _so_ consumed by the task of keeping his hands steady that he didn’t register what it actually said.

_Lust._

Of all the Deadly Sins, this was the one he would have to tempt Aziraphale to commit.

He rolled his eyes, as if the whole thing was just a minor inconvenience, muttered, “too easy” for good measure, and stormed out of Hell.

* * *

Well, that was it. It was game over. Crowley was going to Hell for a very, very long time. There was no way, absolutely no way that he was going to win this challenge.

It wasn’t even that he didn’t think he could cause Aziraphale to desire him, just for a brief, heady moment. He probably _could_ do it. He had all but _invented_ temptation, and Aziraphale wasn’t immune to the lure of most earthly pleasures. Crowley had just never actually tried to tempt him to this one.

But if he did - if he tempted Aziraphale to lust, if he somehow tricked Aziraphale into looking at him with even a fraction of the hunger and longing Crowley felt every time he thought about the angel - he would never be able to live with himself again. Earth would become a Hell beyond anything his employers could come up with, because if Aziraphale just _looked_ at him like that, even once, even if it didn't go any further… Crowley couldn’t bear to have his angel want him, and then go back to a world where that wasn’t the case.

He put the Bentley into gear and returned to his flat with a sigh. He would have to get himself glammed up a bit before going to the bookshop - put on a token show of trying to look _sexy_ , so anyone Hell might have tailing him wouldn’t realise he was only going to see A.Z. Fell, a supposed human stranger, to bid him goodbye.

It might take him a while to get ready.

* * *

Crowley pushed open the door of the bookshop with a heavy heart. He’d put this off for almost the full thirty days, but he couldn’t any longer. Better to get it over with, to make sure he had his chance to say goodbye before Hell took him. Perhaps they’d let him out in a few centuries. A millennium or so. They probably would, eventually. He just had to make sure Aziraphale wouldn’t worry about him, and then he’d go quietly. There was no helping it, not now. Any other sin, perhaps- but he had drawn Lust. The least of the Deadly Sins, supposedly, but the one he knew _he_ couldn’t bear to follow through with.

Aziraphale glanced up from his place behind the counter and his face fell.

“Oh, good Lord.” Crowley glanced around, searching for signs of other angels; perhaps this was a bad time. But no, Aziraphale was looking him up and down, taking in every detail of his appearance.

Crowley forced himself to stand still as he drank in the angel’s own presence - solid and familiar and wonderful as ever. Aziraphale had every right to pass judgement on his outfit; on the artful tousling of his hair where it hung to his collarbones, on the carefully-bared tease of skin at his throat, on the tightly-tailored shirt and even tighter trousers he’d miracled on.

He looked like he was trying too hard, he knew. It was apparent in Aziraphale’s every microexpression; the tiny twist of his lips towards Heaven, the way his cheeks turned just a little pink, the sharp turn of his head as he looked away for a moment before fixing his gaze in the general area of the snake mark by Crowley’s ear.

For a second longer, Crowley took advantage of Aziraphale’s distraction to just look at him. The angel truly had no idea how perfect he was, did he? Because he was. Perfect. And Crowley might never see him again. At best, not for years. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Can’t stay long, angel.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale seemed to snap himself out of his disapproval. “Of course. Off on a temptation, are you?”

“You know me. I’m all about the temptations.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale swallowed hard, glancing down at his desk briefly. Crowley watched with fond exasperation; even after all these years of the Arrangement, Aziraphale was still so very quick to disapprove of the temptations Crowley carried out himself. “Yes, I’m aware. Is there something you want- ah, or… _need_ from me?”

“Er, no. No, just… this could be a long assignment. Or a long run of them, at least- I just, I wanted to let you know. Professional courtesy, or whatever, if demons did courtesies.”

“I appreciate it. What are we talking, a few months? A year?”

“It, ah… could be a bit longer than that, angel. Can’t say - all very sensitive. You might find they send someone else up, while I’m busy.”

“Someone else-? But they’ve never done that before, not full-time. How _long-?”_

“That’s all I can tell you, angel.” And then, because this might be his last chance, he reached out a hand for Aziraphale’s.

The angel regarded it suspiciously for a few seconds, then moved to shake hands - and Crowley ducked down to brush a kiss over his knuckles, in the old courtly style, instead. He never had been any good at resisting the little temptations.

“Bye, angel. Stay out of trouble. I mean that.”

“But Crowley-” Aziraphale sounded downright alarmed, and why shouldn’t he? Crowley was behaving like a fool, and he still had hold of Aziraphale’s hand.

He dropped it as if it burned, strode to the door, and paused for just a moment, slipping his sunglasses down his nose to take one last mental picture of the shop he’d come to think of as a sort of home. The smell of old books, the sight of Aziraphale stepping out from behind his counter, the sound of him muttering _good Lord_ for the second time in Crowley’s short visit. Crowley could take a hint; he’d outstayed his welcome on an intolerably flimsy pretext. He pushed his glasses back into place; it was time to go.

“Take care, Aziraphale.”

Then he walked out of the shop, devoid of hope, and made his way back towards Head Office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspect some of you are probably a little disappointed right now. Sorry!
> 
> Anyway, out of curiosity, has anyone got a favourite chapter? And do you think Crowley will be spending time in the pit, or has he done enough to win his challenge? (The outcome is the same regardless of which sin he drew, so tomorrow will be the last chapter.) Feel free to speculate in the comments!


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a) later than intended - sorry - and b) much, much longer than anticipated. Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> (And yes, you all got it right)

Dagon was sitting at her desk, in the middle of a dark and crowded ‘open-plan’ office, glaring at the shambling mass of demons pressing forward to be counted. At last, Crowley made his way through the tide of misery to the front of the queue.

“Demon Crowley. Present your papers.” She sounded bored; well, at least if he’d failed, it would add some excitement to her day. He placed the two slips of paper on the desk in front of her, and watched as she considered them carefully, consulting her ledger a couple of times. Crowley had never really understood how the Secret Satan results made their way to Dagon, or how their demonic efforts were assessed; he just knew he hated this bit, the waiting.

“Yes, all in order. Back to work, Crowley. Next!”

* * *

Crowley found himself standing outside the bookshop that night, having spent the afternoon worrying about the fact that, apparently, he had somehow tempted a literal _angel_ to commit a deadly sin. If it had been any other angel, _any_ other angel at all, it would have been cause for celebration. Crowley would have told everyone in Hell, and he would have definitely got a commendation for it. But this was _Aziraphale_ , and from the moment he’d realised he’d passed Hell’s annual test, he’d been positively vibrating with anxiety.

_What if Heaven have noticed? What if he’s in trouble? What if he Falls?_

Now he was standing outside the bookshop in the dark, hoping to catch a glimpse of his angel pottering around, unharmed and untroubled. The shop was dark, but that wasn’t unusual; Aziraphale didn’t always have the lights on when he was closed, and he was probably in the back room anyway. There was no cause for alarm. And alarm was exactly what Crowley would cause his angel if he turned up unexpectedly so late in the evening. He should go home, really. He could call Aziraphale to make sure everything was all right. Or perhaps he should call him now. _Then,_ if everything was all right, he could go home, and Aziraphale need never know he’d been there at all.

He dialled the familiar number and held the phone to his ear as, inside the shop, the old landline behind the counter started to ring. Three rings, and Aziraphale still hadn’t appeared in the shop. There was no sign of movement inside at all - and Aziraphale was far too polite to just _ignore_ the phone, so where was he? Something had gone wrong, he just knew it. He’d ruined everything for his angel, because he was too selfish to-

“Oh, Crowley, I wasn’t expecting you, was I?” The voice came from behind him; he whirled round to find his angel standing there, safe and well.

“Aziraphale.” It came out as a broken whisper, and Crowley blessed himself inwardly. He hadn’t even answered the angel’s question. Aziraphale peered quizzically at him over the box in his arms, but then a broad smile lit up his face.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here - I could use your help, actually. Would you mind getting the door for me?”

Crowley waved the door open without looking and followed Aziraphale inside, scanning the darkness for threats.

“What do you need my help with? Are you in trouble with Heaven?”

“With Heaven? No, no. Why would I be?”

“I- oh. Er.” Being around Aziraphale always made it hard to think; Crowley cast about for a vague half-truth he could use to deflect the question, gave up, and resigned himself to an awkward conversation. “Well, first of all, I wanted to say I’m sorry. And you’re- you’re definitely all right?”

“Perfectly fine, I assure you, although I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re apologising for.”

“I- er. Hell. Has this sort of Christmas tradition.”

Aziraphale listened attentively as Crowley explained the rules of the Secret Satan challenge.

“So that’s where you disappear to every year?”

“Yeah.” Crowley couldn’t look at him. “One soul a year, the old-fashioned way. Artisanal temptations, hand-tailored by the Serpent of Eden.”

“You needn’t give me the sales pitch,” Aziraphale told him, “have you done this year’s yet?”

“Yeah.” Crowley sighed. “Got the results this morning. I’m not being thrown in the pit this year.”

“Then why are you apologising? Did you tempt someone you shouldn’t have? A bishop? A rabbi?”

“An angel,” Crowley croaked, throat dry, and watched Aziraphale's brow furrow in concern. “I drew your name this year, and I had to tempt you to a deadly sin, and apparently I did. So… are you going to get into trouble now, angel?”

“ _Me?_ When did- oh, yes, that explains your peculiar behaviour, I suppose. I did think it was strange that you weren’t away on business this Christmas-”

“How can you be so calm, Aziraphale? What if they’re planning to make you Fall for what I tempted you to?”

“Is that-? Crowley. That’s not- I’m not worried about Heaven. I just wanted to ask if you’d help me put these decorations up.”

“Oh, er… yeah, ‘course.”

Aziraphale was already unpacking strings of fairy lights and strands of tinsel, and Crowley could only look on in bewilderment.

“You’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t you? It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I decorate for _me_ , not my customers,” Aziraphale told him primly, “and besides, the date is arbitrary, as you well know.”

“Right.” Crowley was still a bit perplexed by how calm Aziraphale was being, given the revelation that Crowley had tricked him into a _deadly sin_. “Well, then. Command me, o angel.”

“Very funny. Just for that, you can hold this ladder for me while I do the fun bit.”

_The fun bit_ , as it turned out, was pinning the lights along the top of the bookcases. Aziraphale perched at the top of a little ladder, Crowley passing extra little flourishes up when requested and making sure the angel didn’t fall. If, on occasion, a bulb found itself in a slightly different position to where the angel had placed it, that was probably a coincidence, and Aziraphale probably wouldn’t mind, because it looked nicer that way-

“I’m not worried about getting into trouble,” Aziraphale told him abruptly, as if they’d still been having that conversation. “For one thing, the Deadly Sins are for humans. Angels have completely different rules.”

“Oh.” Crowley felt his cheeks burn; he probably should have known that. “Oh, well… that’s all right, then. Still, I’m sorry for trying.”

“It was very swee-” Crowley’s grip on the ladder tightened, and Aziraphale changed tack as it wobbled. “-er, very… _thorough_ of you to worry about it. I do appreciate your concern. But it’s really unnecessary. Even if-”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to want to finish that sentence, and Crowley’s thoughts threatened to run off in every direction, trying to work out how it ended. There was only one way to stop them, and that was to get a definite answer.

“Even if, angel?”

“Even- hold on, I’m coming down.” Aziraphale pinned the last light in place and backed carefully down the ladder, coming to a stop almost in Crowley’s arms. The demon stepped back to leave a polite distance between them. “Even if I’d been bound by the same rules,” Aziraphale told him hesitantly, turning to face him, “I’ve known you for six thousand years.”

That didn’t make any sense. “I don’t think you can become _immune_ to sins, angel. _Or_ temptation.”

“No. But if I was going to get into trouble for letting you tempt me, I’d have Fallen long ago.”

Crowley frowned at him; he was actually a little offended.

“I’ve never tempted you to anything _sinful_ before, angel.”

“Perhaps not intentionally,” Aziraphale told him, “but you are temptation itself, Crowley, surely you know that?” Aziraphale was blushing, now, for some reason Crowley couldn’t understand, and he felt his own cheeks flare in answer as the angel looked up at him from under his eyelashes. “At least… at least to me.”

For a moment, that didn’t make any more sense than anything else Aziraphale had said, and then a possible translation presented itself. _Surely not._ Crowley could only stare until, after a long, awkward silence, he managed to think of a question that didn’t make him sound like an over-hopeful, lovesick idiot.

“...Which sin?”

“All of them,” Aziraphale told him, and now he definitely wasn’t looking at Crowley. “ _All_ of them.”

Crowley’s brain short-circuited for a moment, then. _Gluttony_ \- a thousand evenings of wine and treats, a thousand snatched meetings for farcical reasons. _Greed -_ how many times had Aziraphale called him _my dear_ and fluttered his eyelashes until Crowley did what he wanted? _Sloth -_ the whole Arrangement was a colossal testament to their shared determination to avoid effort wherever possible. _Wrath -_ Crowley had seen Aziraphale almost shaking with anger when Crowley had told him about the state of Hell and his place in it, to say nothing of the time Crowley had accidentally admitted, under the influence of some fine Greek wine, that he wasn’t actually entirely sure _exactly_ why he’d Fallen... but the angel had got himself under control quite quickly and Crowley had thought nothing of it. _Envy -_ he’d never been certain, but he had often suspected that the angel was a little jealous of Crowley’s apparent freedom and, on occasion, his rakish style. _Pride -_ well, that was obviously Crowley’s own fault, he’d been inflating Aziraphale’s ego since Eden. _Lust-_

“Nearly all,” he corrected automatically, and Aziraphale sighed.

“Which is it that you think I’ve forgotten?”

“Well, lust, obviously.”

 _“Really,_ Crowley. Have you _seen_ yourself? Oh, this has all come out wrong.”

“No- no, I get it. Bad demon. Left the temptation on by accident once or twice, maybe. Won’t happen again-”

“I’m afraid it probably will.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and made eye contact at last- or rather, he tried to. “Could, er, would you mind taking your glasses off, my dear? There’s more I have to say, and I’d dearly love to be able to see you while I say it.”

So many bewildering things had already happened that Crowley barely hesitated before removing his sunglasses and placing them on the shelf behind Aziraphale.

“Go on, then. What else have I done?” If he had to have his glasses off for this lecture, it must be the sort of dressing-down that was best got over with. “What other foul temptations have I thrown your way?”

“Oh, irresistible ones,” Aziraphale told him gravely. “You have tempted me to prudence, by teaching me to apply reason before acting in blind obedience. You have tempted me to temperance, when I would have indulged vengeance or judgement to excess. You have tempted me to justice, where I would have been driven by self-righteousness. You have taught me courage, by always standing up for what you know is true and right.”

“But, angel- These are virtues-”

“You have tempted me to faith, because I can always trust in you. You have tempted me to charity, for I have seen the things you do for others in secret. You have tempted me to hope… to hope that one day, we might be on the same side. Our own side, if needs be.”

“Angel, I-”

“And it’s hope that's got me here,” Aziraphale concluded anxiously, as if he was afraid that he would never finish his speech if he let Crowley interrupt, “to this point I’m trying to make, this thing I’m so afraid to say. I love you, Crowley, I-”

Words seemed to fail him, at last, and they failed Crowley, too. Overwhelmed, he turned back to the box of decorations on the counter and began sifting through it in search of something to fiddle with.

"I'm a demon," he reminded the angel softly. 

"The very best of them," Aziraphale agreed softly as he came to stand behind him.

"Our sides wouldn't like this."

"Not at all, no. But they're not watching, Crowley, they so rarely do-"

"If I say it back," Crowley blurted, "will it make it harder?"

"Do you want to say it back?" Aziraphale didn't seem worried; he knew, of course, he'd known for years.

"I do. Love you," Crowley managed, and then, "I love you so much-" His hands stilled on a plastic plant in the box of decorations, as if it was daring him to pick it up. He did; scooped it up and turned to drop it into Aziraphale's hands. Their eyes met, and he couldn't help but say it again. "I love you."

Aziraphale smiled - no, beamed, he was radiant - and glanced down at the little sprig of mistletoe now coming to life in his hands.

"I think Earth has a tradition, here, if you're amenable-?"

"Oh, well," Crowley murmured shakily, "if there'ssss a tradition, we wouldn't want to break-"

And then Aziraphale's mouth was on his, and he was wrapping his arms around his angel as he stumbled back against the counter. Aziraphale's hands were in his hair, and his knee was between Crowley's, and if this was how the Serpent of Eden got discorporated it would be absolutely worth it.

They broke apart, briefly, and Crowley almost cried out at the loss of contact, but Aziraphale only searched his face for doubts before pressing in again. If Crowley had still doubted that he inspired lust in his angel, his fears were soon dispelled; his knees buckled slightly at the realisation that this was really happening, that Aziraphale was really risking everything to tell him he loved him, and strong arms helped him up to sit on the edge of the counter instead. He wrapped his legs around his angel, pulling him closer as Aziraphale began pressing hungry kisses to the line of his jaw and down his neck.

"Don't- don't want to- go too fast," Crowley gasped, even as every nerve in his body seemed to light up in response to Aziraphale's actions.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale murmured against Crowley's skin, "I'm just- it's just-"

"Overwhelming," Crowley finished for him, "yeah. We've got time."

"Mm. The kissing is all right?"

Crowley didn't bother to answer that with words, running a hand through Aziraphale's hair to coax him closer so he could kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and thank you for reading!


End file.
